I came home from the hospital yesterday and wrote a blog post that basically depicted me as fearlessly facing death and refusing to back down, chasing it back into the darkness from whence it came.
But that’s not accurate. That was Percocet-fueled pep-talk bullcrap. Truth is, I did face death, but I was scared, and I feel somewhat vulnerable and helpless. Thanks to God and skilled surgical staff, as well as at least some amount of self-determination, I’m on the mend, but I’m still scared, and I can’t lift anything for two weeks, and that is terrifying to me because I’m not used to being delicate. I’m used to being strong. This is challenging my ego and my sense of identity and it’s really tough. I don’t want pain pills, and I’m taking them only when absolutely necessary. I don’t like not being able to drive. In order to get back to being how I want to be, though, I’ve got to let my ego take a backseat for awhile and allow assistance.
Life is more fragile than we think it is, and I’m awake to that fact now. Never take basic human functions for granted, because one can lose them in an instant.
Tuesday morning, I was fine. I got up, ate breakfast, went to work, etc. by midday I had mildly bothersome stomach cramps. By 9pm I was on my knees groaning in agony. By 10 I was shitting what looked like red velvet cake mix. It was like something out of a horror movie.
The surgeon at the ER said if I’d waited six more hours I could’ve died.
Fast forward to Sunday, and I’m stable, I’m up and walking around and showing far more resiliency and progress than expected, and the surgeon was quite pleased when he visited with me yesterday before discharging me from the hospital. Said I’m doing great and I’ll be better and back to normal in no time.
I can’t sit here and brag and take credit like “look at how tough I am.” That’s wrong. My strength comes from elsewhere. I can’t take full credit for it, and therefore I deleted my original post and wrote this.
Take care of yourselves. Listen to your bodies. I’m glad I did. Don’t hesitate to go to the ER when you know you need to.
I care about politics and petty bickering even less now than I did before this. It all seems so dumb. We’re all human beings and life is a gift. We all take part in squandering it.
One of the lowest points of my life was when I woke up at 2am in a pool of my own shit, and struggled to get out of bed and untangle myself from all my wires and tubes to take off my robe without unplugging anything. Then I shit down my leg. I was doped up and had no control and was in extreme pain. I had these loudass hiccups that brought up throat-burning acid and I was miserable, calling into the intercom for help. I had to let someone help me and I hated it. Sometimes we all need help, though. It’s ok. Nobody is Superman.